I'm Latigo Flint, the greatest quickdraw the world has ever known. I can draw, aim and fire a six-gun faster and straighter than anyone, living or dead. If I had been born 150 years earlier, I'd have been a living god in the American West - but I wasn't, and that's the dern, cursed luck that I have to live with.
Blogger.com has agreed to publish a running journal of my life. I reckon that was mighty kind of them, and I'm much obliged.

Monday, April 24, 2006

Lonesome Gunslinger Songs

Sometimes Latigo Flint's neighbors assemble in the courtyard and ask him to stop singing Lonesome Gunslinger Songs from the roof of the apartment complex... at 3am... through a bullhorn... wearing nothing but a neckerchief and tear-smudged mascara.

It's a request Latigo Flint can't honor.

The other night Latigo Flint was crooning the lonesome tale of an outlaw and gunslinger named Canebrake Divinity who fell in love with a stage driver but had to shoot her anyway when the holdup went bad.

Latigo Flint was just getting to the good part when he was suddenly pelted with shoes.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!!!" The mob howled.

"I'm singing a lonesome gunslinger song about a lonesome gunslinger named Canebrake Divinity." I replied.

"You're singing what?!!!"

"There was once this lonesome gunslinger named Canebrake Divinity." I explained. "Many things conspired to make him so lonesome--one of which happened to be the tragic shooting of a female stage driver with whom he'd quite recently fallen in love."I scanned their faces for comprehension."I sing the story of that day."

I drew a deep breath and resumed the third verse, singing even more beautifully than before. Someone found melon rinds in the dumpster and dispensed them to the rest of the crowd--not as a snack to enjoy with my song but as projectiles less precious than shoes.

It is difficult to sing a lonesome gunslinger song when you are constantly being smacked in the face with melon rinds. I decided to climb down and pistol whip them all to death."Please wait there." I implored, setting aside my guitar. "So I can climb down and pistol whip you all to death."

When I reached the edge I noticed children in the crowd. Had they been among the melon rind tossers? Even if they had, should their punishment be equally harsh? I agonized over this. It became moot a moment later when the eave gave way and I fell six stories onto gravel.

I hemorrhaged a lot and groaned a bit. Almost everyone laughed and went inside. One child hung back.

"You were planning to pistol whip us to death." It was a statement, not an accusation.

"That wasn't for sure yet." I noted.

I struggled to light a cigarette, needing one after such a fall. I might as well have tried to fly, nothing on me was working at all.

The child knelt and produced a match."In the song." She asked, striking it across gravel. "What happened after Canebrake Divinity fell in love with the female stage driver?"

I waited for her to bring the flame in but she held it out of reach, as if to trade it for an answer.

"The holdup went bad and Canebrake Divinity had to shoot her, and then he was lonesome for the rest of his life."

She shook her head sadly and lit my cigarette. "That’s sort of how all your songs seem to end."

"Well kido," I took a long drag and felt one of my lungs collapse. Fortunately I had a spare. "It wouldn't really do to have much joy in a lonesome gunslinger song, now would it?"

"I guess not." She leaned over and tried to poke a protruding vertebra back into my neck where it was supposed to be. "I just thought you could try leaving it open-ended every once in a while--ambiguity can also be pretty lonely, just in a different way."

11 Comments:

That’s one sharp kid. She seems to have an appreciation and insight towards tragedy that is rare for one so young. Maybe you should consider taking her under your wing, and teaching her the ways of the gunslinger. You just might find yourself learning a life lesson or two in the process.

That kid is wise beyond her years, Latigo. You want ambiguity in a love story like that one. Because from the moment Canebrake pulled the trigger, the stage driver became the perfect woman: forever young, forever beautiful, and forever the love of his life.

If she hadn't have been stupid and done what he told her not to do, he might have had the chance to consumate the relationship... and then risk finding out she snored, or liked being branded, or had a dick or something.

So sing away, pal, and to hell with the neighbors. Look at it this way: you're in L.A. You sang and they threw garbage. But if they knew you were a smoker? They would have lynched you.

Too bad you weren't singing "Pancho and Lefty", the last truly Western song (back from when it was called country & western.) Willie Nelson likes pot, and in that neck of the California woods, that might have bought you a little leniency. You might have been able to keep your spleen, at least.

Latigo, you should adopt that child. The one with the wobbly knees that likes to throw garbage at you when you sing. Actually you should adopt two of them - that way, the next time they throw garbage, you can shoot one to make it an example to the other one. And it will tell its guttersnipe friends. And your legend will grow. Then you will have a captive audience of children that do not throw garbage, but are instead quite tractable. The possibilities for this audience are endless. And barristas think guys with kids are cute.

I worry about you Latigo, I hope you have the cowboy's weakness for hyperbole, otherwise you must be a lungless spleenless brain damaged bloodpoisoned scarred up old wreck by now. No wonder you're squinty eyed. More holes than a pre nuptial agreement.